walking behind the houses and avoiding the main road. After a few blocks, we sneak into the backyard of a small house. The yellow paint on the house is peeling, a few windows are broken, and the small porch is sunken with rot. It looks to have been abandoned for decades, but the remains of a life are still evident all over the property. Starting with the little flower pots that now lay empty and broken next to the unhinged door and ending with a rusting sign that is falling off the porch that reads “Home is wherever I’m with you.”
A sad and uneasy feeling sinks to the bottom of my stomach. I notice all these things. I also notice the way Forty-four looks at the house. Hesitant and respectful. Like he, too, is a trespasser on remnants of lives long gone.
We all carefully follow Forty-four up the broken and weak porch to the back door. His stride is assured against the rotting boards. I pick Ripper up, afraid he might fall through, but I’m probably more likely to take us both down on the crippled porch.
Forty-four turns the faded brass handle, yet the door handle doesn’t move. It must be locked.
My mother signs something to Forty-four, making him halt his effort and glance around at the houses on each side of us. One is also vacant while the other appears to be lived in. There are no lights on in the neighboring house, but there is a child’s bike outside and all the windows are intact with pretty blue curtains. Forty-four watches that house with intensity like he can will it to remain oblivious to us.
Maybe he can.
His knuckles whiten as he grabs the one good hinge that’s holding the door in place at the top. Hard lines etch along the muscles of his arm, power coming to life beneath his smooth skin. The sound of wood cracking fills the air. Before I even realize it, he has the rusted metal hinge in one hand and is pushing the door open as quietly as possible.
He holds the door open for all of us as we walk through. He takes one look back outside, his eyes shifting, making sure everything is as it should be, and closes the door the best he can.
We stand in a small laundry room that feels a little cramped with the four of us inside. I’m about to explore the surrounding rooms when I hear a screeching noise and almost jump out of my skin. It stops me in my tracks. I turn quickly to find Forty-four picking up the washing machine and placing it in front of the wrecked door. I swallow, again, thinking about the lethal strength he hides just under the surface.
My mother roams from room to room with a flashlight like she’s searching for something. As far as I can tell, scurrying mice is all she finds. She and Forty-four meet in what was once the kitchen. A large wooden table sits in the center of the room.
I follow Ky into the room just in time to see Forty-four fling the few objects off the table. Glass and metal scatter to the floor as he exits the room in his usual silent manner. As if nothing happened.
My body stills and the urge to run away sinks into every anxious nerve in my body. Ky, too, seems on edge from the outburst, but he doesn’t say anything. He just casually moves closer to my mother and then stands in a dominant stance at her side. She seems unaware that Ky or myself are in the room at all. She starts wiping down the dusty table with an old rag like we’re preparing for a family dinner. Once that task is finished, she starts searching every drawer and cabinet. There is a mission here, one that myself and Ky are not aware of.
“What are you looking for?” I ask, still standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
My mother doesn’t glance up from her search in the cabinet. Ky just shakes his head and leans against the wall like he’s growing impatient with the task my mother has solely taken charge of.
I backtrack through the house looking for Forty-four. The blinds are open and the moon lets in white light in strips across the floor. It’s quieter the deeper into the house I go, away from my frantic mother. The darkness is starting to feel eerie when I open a door that has steep,